


Wheel of Westeros: Book Three Rise of the Raven Part One

by annmcbee



Series: Wheel of Westeros [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 13:16:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20426600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/annmcbee
Summary: In this chapter, young Griff deals with the price of ruling and makes an overture to Dany, who has dealt harshly with her Yunkish enemies. Jon sees the army of the dead for the first time and is reunited with someone special. Arya hatches a plan. Melisandre gives Shireen a warning. A lost member of the Stark family is held trapped by his own mentor.PS: I have changed the title from "Rise of the Others" to "Rise of the Raven." You'll see why.





	Wheel of Westeros: Book Three Rise of the Raven Part One

** _The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Three: Rise of The Others Part One**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s _A Song of Ice and Fire_ series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series, _Game of Thrones_. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only _Game of Thrones_ and _A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Griff

Griff had given up on writing a poem about the battle for Storm’s End. Usually, he could craft seven good verses in an hour’s time. Haldon the Halfmaester had taught him well how to weave a rhyme, but now that Griff had actually experienced battle, he found himself unable to express the truth of it. The detail that stood out most to him was the smell of shit, and how did one write a decent poem with that as the centerpiece? Old Griff, or Lord Connington as he now gave clearance to be called, had tried to prepare him for the “battle fever,” that moment when the fear met the excitement and suddenly you felt no pain, only rage and the lust for blood. Indeed, when the siege began, and the arrows began to fly from the walls, Griff’s heart had pounded so loud he could hardly hear the stamping of his own elephants behind him. Immediately, the cliffs and the sea beyond the castle seemed to glow in brilliant sapphire blue and silver. The red roofs of the village were as bright as fresh blood and the trees were glittering like emeralds. He thought he smelled lemons. Then everything around him seemed to slow down, and there was ringing in his ear that he quickly realized was the sound of men dying. The lemons quickly became their voided bowels.

Griff hadn’t taken time to consider the lives he cut down when they finally breached the walls and took the castle. He hadn’t even realized he himself was wounded until the battle was long over, and the dead were being piled up and counted. Later, when the surrender was complete, and his wound was cleaned and dressed, he considered the word “glory” and how inadequate it was. In the end, Griff decided to forego writing a poem. Instead, he simply recounted the events as he remembered, from the first sounding of the battle drums to the kneeling of the Storm Lords. Once finished, he read it through and found it still didn’t sound right. Troubled, he brought the parchment to Connington for a look.

“It isn’t right,” Griff said. “I wrote down what I remember almost exactly…so why does it read like a lie? Why?”

Connington poured Griff a goblet of wine and then one for himself. He took a slow sip first and then put his hand on young Griff’s shoulder.

“You will never truthfully tell the story of a battle as its hero, Griff,” he said. “If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue.”[1]

Griff sighed. “So this is ruling.”

“This is ruling,” Connington said, and gave Griff’s shoulder a squeeze.

“I think I’ll go pray to the Crone for a while.”

Connington smiled. “Yes, my king. Pray for guidance and you’ll find the way.”

Storm’s End contained a peaceful little sept with windows facing the sea. The sound of the waves filled the room with a soothing melody. Seven humble statues stood in a circle. In the center was a basin of hot coals for lighting tapers. In front of the statute of the Warrior, three candles had melted and burned out. That surprised Griff…he had expected the Warrior’s image to be practically aflame from pre-battle prayers. He had spent almost two hours praying with Septa Lemore before the siege began. The Crone stood in her corner opposite the Warrior, a bent little old lady with a stone lantern in her stone hand. Griff took a taper and lit it, then tipped it to drip wax onto the pedestal on which the Crone stood. Then he planted the candle and knelt with his hands folded in front of him.

“_Wise Crone, she that knows the fate of us all, show me the path and guide me through the darkness. Light my way so that I may serve my people well. Give me the foresight to do right by my enemies and rule with wisdom…”_ Griff whispered over and over, until he suddenly felt overwhelmed with exhaustion. He rose and left the sept to find Duck waiting for him outside, looking agitated.

“What is it, Duck?”

Ser Rolly Duckfield, Lord Commander of Griff’s Kingsguard, tugged at his beard, as he was wont to do when worried or in deep thought, which wasn’t often. He had fought bravely for Griff, affirming the choice to make him Commander, despite the protests of Connington among others who thought Griff should give the position to a higher lord with more renown. But more than breeding and reputation made a good Kingsguard, and Duck had proved it.

“The Storm Lords received a raven. Stannis Baratheon marches south,” Duck said. “He has retreated from an attack on Winterfell in the North in anticipation of a paid army from Essos, for which he obtained a sizable loan from the Iron Bank.”

“I’m going to assume he’s not coming down to surrender,” Griff said grimly.

“I’d say that’s a reasonable assumption, since he hasn’t heard of our arrival, as of the sending of this bird. It’s likely he hopes to meet with the sellswords at White Harbor.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance we managed to keep capturing Storm’s End a secret? Did we take out all the ravens like we did at the Roost?”

Duck shook his head. “They would have been sent from the seaward side I imagine. Most likely a bird was sent to him the moment we arrived. We might hope it gets lost, but I’d prepare to face Stannis sooner than later.”

Now Griff understood why Harry Strickland and Connington had wanted to delay and use slow guile to take the castle. Had he followed their plan, they might not yet have the castle, but they could more easily surprise Stannis.

“I suppose we should assemble at Dragonstone then…and I was really getting used to the Stormlands. They’re gorgeous aren’t they?”

“Bit windy for my taste…makes my nose run,” Duck said. “This means we need Maidenpool, too. And the Lannister forces have that.”

“Yes I know,” Griff said, trying to hide his dread. Randyll Tarly of the Reach held Maidenpool, and he was not to be trifled with. As long as the Reach allied with Cersei, Griff would struggle, for most of the realm’s wealth lay between King’s Landing and the grand strongholds of the Reach. “Get some sleep,” he said to Duck. “You earned it, brother.”

Duck nodded, bowed and took his leave. Before leaving the sept to retire, Griff looked back at the statue of the Crone. The wick on his candle had drowned in melted wax, leaving her image in darkness.

Chapter 2: Daenerys (Her Verses on the Burning of Yunkai)

“Dragonfugue”[2]

Black wine of daybreak, we drink it at evening

We drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night we drink and we drink

We forge a chain in the fire, there your ankles won’t be too chafed.

A king lives in the city, he plays with his whip. He writes in stripes,

I write in flame when it grows dark to Astapor

Your red wings Drogon

I write it and step out of the red door and the stars are all kneeling

Cleon whistles his slaves to come close he whistles his eunuchs into rows has them shovel a grave in the walls he orders them run your spears through the babes

Pale mare of daybreak we eat you at night we eat you at morning and midday

We eat you at evening we eat and we eat

A slaver lives in the walls he plays with corpses I write

I write when it grows dark to Yunkai

Your red wings Drogon your golden wings Viserion

We shovel a grave with fire and blood there you won’t lie too long

He shouts jab their hearts deeper you lot there

You others sing up and play he grabs for the whip in his belt

He cracks it his head is aflame

Jab your spears deeper you lot there you others play on for the dance

Honeyed locust of daybreak we eat you at night we eat you at midday and morning

We eat you at evening we eat and we eat

A harpy’s son lives in the pyramid

Your golden wings Viserion your emerald wings Rhaegal

He dances with my dragons I shout play more sweetly

Death is a slave master from Yunkai

I shout spread your wings wider you’ll rise then in fire to the sky

They will have a grave then in the smoke where there is plenty of space

Fire light of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you at midday

Death is a mother of dragons

We drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink

The pale mare is a master of Yunkai his head it is charred black

I burned him with breath made of fire I burned his city completely

And to ash

A queen lives in this pyramid

She writes with her dragons, grants you a space in the smoke among the stars

I play with ghosts and daydreams

Death is a mother of dragons

Your red wings Drogon

Your emerald wings Rhaegal

Chapter 3: Griff

_My Dearest Aunt Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of Mereen,_

_I have fervently prayed that this letter finds you alive and well. I am your own nephew, Aegon VI of House Targaryen. I know this is will be a great shock, but I hope it may bring you joy as well, as knowing you are living has brought much joy to me. I was rescued from certain death by a mutual ally, who exchanged me with an unfortunate child from Flea Bottom in King’s Landing, soon after the city was sacked. I was raised in Essos under an assumed identity by Lord Jon Connington, a loyal friend of my father and your brother Rhaegar Targaryen. No man in his service had more love for my father than Lord Connington, and this love became my protection for nineteen years. In that time, I was raised to honor the Seven, and to serve and protect the people of the Seven Kingdoms, and to honor their customs. _

_In my years in hiding, my thoughts were often occupied by you and your brother Viserys. I cannot begin to know the fear of death you must have felt, while my disguise protected me. While I was brought up in safety as a common fisherman’s son, you lived without resources, constantly at the mercy of enemies who would seek to take your lives. It gives me great sorrow to know how you suffered. As I grew toward manhood, I often wondered about you in particular, for though Viserys was my uncle, you were only an infant and a girl and the more vulnerable. Many a night I lay awake wondering, is she safe? Is she in pain? Does she have enough to eat? Has she been mistreated? Even though I had never seen you, I began to love you, and to dream of rescuing you from your exile. Each night I prayed for you to rise above your foes, and looked forward to the day when you will no longer be alone and under siege._

_Though I grieve the loss of Viserys, I am happy that you have not only survived, but have become a queen in your own right by conquest, just like our ancestor Aegon. When I heard of your dragons, I knew that the Gods had answered my prayers. I know of the loss of your Dothraki husband and child – a loss I cannot begin to imagine. I ask you now to allow me to fill the emptiness left by that loss. I have been told of your beauty, wisdom and courage, and have loved you from afar. You are still in my thoughts from morning to night. It was painful to leave you behind, but I have sailed to Westeros to reclaim our kingdom, and as of the sending of this letter have taken the Stormlands. My party and I will soon land at our family’s castle of Dragonstone. _

_I say our kingdom, because it is my intention to share the Seven Kingdoms with you._

_Marry me, sweet Daenerys, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, and let us rule together. Between us, we already have the strength to take this realm back. I know you feel a responsibility to your subjects in the East, and I do not ask you to abandon them. I am confident your reforms will take root soon, and when they do, I entreat you to join me. As my wife and my queen, you will be by my side as we return this country to peace and prosperity. I promise not only to love you with all my heart, but to respect your wisdom and fortitude as a ruler._

_I await your response with longing._

_Your devoted and loving,_

_Aegon VI (whom you may call Griff)_

Chapter 4: Jon

The pain in Jon’s ribs made breathing torture, and yet he breathed. That he knew. Cold harsh air came in through his nostrils, and warmer wetter air came out of his mouth along with his groans. _I am among the living,_ he thought to himself, over and over. _I am alive._

Through pain and the lingering horror of Hardhome, Jon and his men had managed to account for those Freefolk among the survivors who had made it onto the ships and onto the shores of Skagos. So few. So few had made it. At one time over a thousand lived at Hardhome in the far North…now only a few hundred remained alive and breathing. In one way, it was a blessing. Jon had no idea how they would have fed the full number, much less make room on the ships for them and their belongings. As things were, they could make it to Eastwatch within a day or two with all of the survivors, who had in their panic left almost everything they owned behind. The problem wasn’t that so many had died. The problem was that those who had died now fought in the army of the Others.

When they had arrived at Hardhome, the surviving Freefolk and Night’s Watch brothers had been under siege for days. Jon remembered the ravens that had come – disjointed and scattered ravings about “dead things.” Now that they made a terrible, tragic sense, Jon now knew his true calling and mission: to unite the kingdoms in a war against the Walkers and their army of the dead._ I am alive. I am living._

He had seen them…mounted on glittering silver spiders the size of oxen. The Walkers themselves didn’t seem so much to be made of substance as of energy. They were not so much bodies as skirts of cold around pillars of transparent light – walking shards of crystal-clear ice that shifted rather than moved. Their eyes and the shiny eyes of their spindle-legged mounts were a penetrating blue. At least a dozen of them stood atop a bluff and didn’t advance – not at first. Their army of undead wights had rushed forth in wave after wave, running at breakneck speed on legs that had rotted near to the bone. They ran without strategy or direction, simply rushing forward dumbly toward anything alive in order to rip out their throats with claw and tooth. They ran right off the edge of steep cliffs, dropping far enough to smash a living man to pieces, then stood up and continued blindly forward. They ran straight into the water and sunk there. For all Jon knew, they just kept running under water… kept running until they finally, hopefully, disintegrated.

Jon had heard his best friend, Samwell Tarly, describe the Walkers. But Sam hadn’t had time to experience their full strength when he had used a knife of obsidian to destroy one. Jon hadn’t any dragonglass, only Longclaw, the sword of Valyrian steel given to him by the former Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. Sam’s hypothesis that Valyrian steel could destroy the Others thankfully turned out to be true. He had also said that fire could be used to destroy the wights, and only fire. Where would they get enough dragonglass? He knew where they could get fire…but not whether the fire would be delivered.

The Walkers carried what looked like large swords made of a white, ice-like substance unlike anything Jon had ever seen. Longclaw had held against the Walker who had challenged him, though the effort of touching it had sent a shock of cold energy into him that had cracked a couple of his ribs. Against the pain, Jon had fought and destroyed the Walker who faced him, using Longclaw to send him into a smoke of crystals that dissipated and were gone, just like that. _Pain. Pain means I’m alive. Alive._ The Others fought as if they hadn’t counted on much of a challenge, and that was probably because a sword of regular steel was useless against them. Other Walkers had killed several of Jon’s men and plenty of Freefolk, and there had been no other recourse but to flee. Once the ships were loaded, they pushed off, and then Jon looked back. All at once, the dead they had left behind stood right up and watched them as they sailed away. Jon noticed amid his horror that something that the Walkers all wore on their chests, something that looked like a brooch in the shape of a spiral, glowed bright blue before the dead stood up. The energy of the Others seemed to feed life back into the wights.

Jon wasted no time in composing a letter to Sam, who was studying to be a maester at Oldtown down south. Sam might find a solution in books. He certainly knew much from his reading that Jon had never known or been taught by his maester at Winterfell. He wrote another to Dragonstone, in case Stannis had survived and somehow made it back there. He wrote to the Queen of Mereen, Daenerys of House Targaryen, who Tycho Nestoris claimed had three dragons, if little interest in returning to Westeros. He wrote to King’s Landing, but he didn’t expect much from Cersei Lannister. Still, he had to try. The Red Keep contained a supply of wildfire, the explosive that had destroyed Stannis’s fleet when he attacked the city. As Jon finished writing, one hand clumsily clutching a quill and another clutching his side, Edd came into the tent with a worried look. They had only just gotten everyone ready to camp for the night, and all Jon wanted was a night of rest, then they could be on their way. He supposed it was too much to ask.

“We’ve got company commander,” Edd said. “Looks like the locals might be coming to give us a welcome.”

“That’s very vague Edd.”

“Let’s put it this way. They _are_ breathing.”

Jon sighed. Edd helped him put on his cloak, and they stepped out into the cold. Indeed, a party of Skagossons had assembled. The leader was unusually tall, Jon could see. As they drew closer, he could see strange markings on the man’s face. All of the Stoneborn seemed to have them. Upon closer inspection, it looked to be scars… but not scars from battle or accident. They were purposely made. Three long lines on the forehead. Six lines like feathers on each cheek. Others had different patterns – some that looked like waves upon the sea, some that looked like the veins of leaves, some in spiral patterns. But they all had them – except one man who stood in front with a young Freefolk woman and a little boy. The woman bore just one freshly made scar that went from under her right eye, over the bridge of her nose, and then curved around her left eye like a hook. The little boy had a series of dashes scarred under each eye, and a straight vertical line from his lower lip to the bottom of his chin. The man was bearded, and wore a breastplate with the sigil of a stag over a burning heart.

“Father!”

Jon heard the cry coming from Devan Seaworth standing behind him. He vaguely sensed the young squire running into the arms of the bearded man. He thought they embraced. But Jon couldn’t concentrate on Davos Seaworth reuniting with his son, or on the cold, or the steely look of the Stoneborn leader, or the pain in his ribs. He eyes were trained on the boy. A seven-maybe-eight-year old boy with reddish hair like Catlyn Stark’s had been. Like Robb’s had been. A boy with a fierce look and a fearsome black direwolf standing over him.

Jon broke into a run and fell to his knees before the boy. When he went to touch him, the boy growled like a dog, though the direwolf remained silent, sniffing the air.

“Rickon,” Jon said, swallowing tears. “It’s me, your brother. It’s Jon.”

The boy’s eyes grew wide and bright. He reached out a cold little hand and touched Jon’s bare head.

“I know you,” Rickon Stark said. “But all your hair is gone away.”

Jon smiled and nodded, then pulled his little brother in and squeezed him very, very tight.

Chapter 5: Arya

The Kindly Man appeared right on time. Arya had placed the Waif’s face on display at just about his height. Just above a beardless man with a pointy nose, and below a young girl with bushy eyebrows. It was where Mercy’s face had been. But Mercy’s face wouldn’t be going back.

“You told her to kill me,” Arya said to the Kindly Man.

“Yes. But here you are. And there she is.”[3]

The Waif had come after her just as she thought. Arya had left Merry’s place in time, only to run into the Waif in the middle of the market. She led her in circles before doubling back to Merry’s, after giving Merry time to hide. The back room was dark except for a single candle. When she had lured the Waif inside, she simply snuffed the flame. Darkness was no obstacle to a girl trained to fight blind. Needle, the sword her brother Jon had given to her before she left home, went through the Waif’s throat like a needle into a hem.

Arya had cried when she had hidden the slim little sword in the rocks by the northwest pier after beginning her training with the Faceless Men. She couldn’t bear to part with it, even though her trainers insisted she leave everything of herself behind. But Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile.[4] When Arya had found it again, after all those months, still sharp and light as a feather, it was as if she remembered who she was, and it seemed that maybe, someday, she could be that person again.

“A girl is not no one. A girl is not ready,” the Kindly Man said.

Arya walked up to him and looked grimly into his frosty green eyes. Then she clutched his face in her hands and kissed him long and deep on the mouth. The Kindly Man didn’t exactly return the kiss, but he didn’t fight her either.

“I love you Jaqen,” she said, calling him by the name he bore when they had met – him posing as a Lannister soldier, her posing as a boy when she had been running for her life from those who destroyed her family. “And that means you aren’t no one either.”

She backed away then, never looking away from his beautiful eyes. “I’m taking Mercy with me, and I’m going home now.”

When she ran, he didn’t follow.

Early the next morning, she boarded a ship with Merry and her troupe, the Beacon Street Mummers. Arya and Merry took turns sipping from a bottle of Merry’s favorite rum and set about rewriting _The Lions Roar_, the play that had gotten the players a passage to Westeros. The portrayal of Cersei as a strong mother who swears vengeance on her son’s murderers had gotten the Crown’s favor. By contrast, Merry told Arya, any production that made Cersei look less than virtuous could get the players’ tongues cut out. So when they added the new scenes, in which Cersei is made by the Faith Militant to walk naked through King’s Landing as penance for her sins, they had to convey that the Queen regent was absolutely innocent (instead of clearly guilty of incest and conspiracy.) By contrast, Queen Margaery, who Arya would be playing, had to be a wanton slut, out to steal Tommen’s love and drive poor Cersei out of the city. The townspeople who watched Cersei’s walk of atonement had to be in utter awe of her ageless beauty. In one scene, Cersei lamented Tommen’s corruption by his new Tyrell queen. Merry delivered the lines so beautifully it made Arya’s eyes well up…

_My heart is burst, I have lost half my soul; _

_Even now, now, very now, a vile thorny black rose_

_Is pricking my white cub. Arise, arise_

_Awake the snoring citizens with the bell, _

_Or else the Others make a grandmother of me! **[5]**_

Arya dug through the giant basket of costumes left by the actress who had played Sansa. She was no longer a part of the troupe, and according to Merry, might have hard luck finding jobs after what “happened” to her face. She sniffed each garment that passed through her hands, amazed at what she could tell by smelling. One frock had been worn while the player was having her moon blood. A bonnet had concealed a great deal of head lice. Apron strings had been twisted in nervous fingers. Once she found a gown indecent enough to be Margaery’s, she tried it on as Mercy and struck a seductive pose. The other mummers in the troupe were used to her transformations now. They believed that somehow Arya and her Northern Westerosi gods had brought them their sudden success.

But Arya wasn’t interested in applause or the favors of gods. She was interested in revenge. Once in King’s Landing, she would find her way to the Keep and to Cersei. She had imagined killing the Queen a hundred ways. Putting Needle through her eye perhaps. Slicing open her throat. Pushing her out of a window. Braining her with a stone. But it would take time to get that close, and it would take more faces than just Mercy’s. For now, she meant to make Margaery a whore, to be sure, but a whore the audience would love. Against their best instincts, it would be the rose-scented slut they cheered for, even though they should get behind the bereaved and persecuted Queen Mother. It would look like Margaery was a villain to those who wanted her to be, sure. But secretly, the people would flock to see the villainess, not the heroine. They would love not the lion but the rose, thorns and all.

Chapter 6: Cersei

_Bloody bells_, thought Cersei Lannister as she looked out over King’s Landing to the Sept of Baelor. By now, Margaery and her supporters would have gathered for the trial, along with the High Sparrow and his loathsome sycophants the Faith Militant. Hundreds of them, all huddled together waiting for the opportunity to humiliate her again. Cersei wished she could get a closer seat for the show, but the view here was fine too – and safer. When the wildfire piled up beneath the Sept blew, it would probably take out most of the surrounding districts too.

_Why bells? Why does it have to be bells?_

They kept on pealing over and over. After they finally quieted, Cersei would still hear them in her mind, in her dreams, in the voices of the traitorous conspirators that surrounded her. Septa Unella, that bitch, had relished ringing that bell in her ear as she limped naked from the Sept to the Keep that awful day. Now the lovely Unella was strapped to a table in the black cells beneath the Keep, having some quality moments with Ser Gregor Clegane. Ser Gregor had died, or at least appeared to die, while fighting for Cersei’s side in the trial by combat of her brother Tyrion. The despicable imp had killed their father and escaped, and despite the offer of riches in exchange for it, his head still hadn’t turned up. But Ser Gregor was back. Qyburn, her new master of whispers, had worked some magic that had restored something like life to the giant man. They renamed him Ser Robert Strong, as it was in their best interest to keep some of Qyburn’s activities a secret. _Not magic_, he told her. _Science_. Ser Robert didn’t speak at all, so that was convenient. It was wonderful actually…like having her own private monster. That monster was Unella’s god now.[6]

Cersei didn’t really sleep much. At night, she silently made up an alphabet rhyme about all the delights to be found in the black cells. It was a way of keeping track of those who defied her authority and how they were being dealt with.

_A is for Alayaya, her teeth in a jar. B is for Bayard whose intestines stretch far. C is for Chataya wasting away. D is for Dancy whose arse takes it all day. E is for Ermesande with a window in her belly. F is for Franklyn who grows more and more smelly. G is for Godry sucked dry by leeches. H is for Hugh with rats in his breeches. I is for Isrid, drowned and revived. J is for Jalabhar who sleeps with a bee hive. K is for Kevan whose parts are to spare. L is for Lambert held in a snare. M is for Melicent forced to eat nails. N is or Norbert developing scales. O is for Osney with an awl up his prick. P is for Paxter under a block three feet thick. (Q is for Qyburn who is so very quick.) R is for Roslyn with a hole in her head. S is for Sari with spear points for a bed. T is for Torbert whose lips are sewn shut. U is for Unella whom Ser Robert will rut. V is for Varion with worms in his eyes. W is for Wendyll made into pies. X is for…**[7]**_

Well they hadn’t found anyone whose name began with X, Y or Z yet, but Cersei felt confident at some point they would. X might just be perfect for this blue-haired bastard boy who called himself the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, for who knew whose whelp he really was.

And there it went! All at once the Sept became a brilliant blossom of bright green flame that made Cersei’s heart leap with joy. She remembered the same green light plastering a grin on her face when she had watch the Tower of the Hand explode. The blast from the sept seemed to shake the entire city. Cersei hadn’t felt such a thrilling vibration since she had last been with Jaime. _And where is my brother_, she wondered. He had never answered her call for help when she was locked away beneath that vile sept. He hadn’t come to her rescue, and at last she’d had to rescue herself. Truly, it felt good to be one’s own hero and shield. If only she could keep from letting the aloneness bother her.

As if he heard her thoughts, Qyburn came skipping in like a little girl.

“Justice is served my queen!”

They clasped hands and waltzed around the room together. The old necromancer could certainly be light on his feet when he wanted to be. Cersei laughed for the first time in months.

Chapter 7: Shireen

_Where are you king of wolves_, Shireen thought. She imagined Ghost the direwolf somewhere snuggled in a cave or underneath a great felled tree, his thick white fur making a dark warm haven that would be a perfect place to hide. The baby fussed and kicked in her arms, and he was already getting so big, she wasn’t sure how long she could hold him.

“Hush Monster! You must be quiet!”

She tried gently rocking the baby boy, who was called “Monster” by Val the Wildling princess. It was bad luck to give him a real name before he was two, Val had told them, especially with the winter coming on. He was the son of Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall, and having king’s blood might just be the end of him before the winter was even underway. Melisandre burned people with king’s blood as a sacrifice to the Lord of Light, and now that Father was probably alive, they needed all the blessings they could get. Shireen had been so happy about Father she had danced in circles with her fool Patchface until they were breathless. But then she had seen Melisandre whispering with Val outside Val’s chambers. So she had dived under the legs of the giant Wun Wun, ran up the steps to where Monster slept in his crib, picked him up and stole back out silently without knowing at all what she would do next. For now she holed up in a corner of the old hall that was full of shields. She thought she heard one of the Night’s Watchmen say it was used for something special, but it never seemed like anyone went in there except for rats. Shireen figured she could hide Monster there for a while, bringing him bits of food and whatever milk she could find until the Lord Commander returned. Lord Jon wouldn’t let Melisandre burn Monster.

But of course it was a foolish plan, and the first trip she made to make water and find some bread and milk, she returned to find the red witch holding Monster in her arms, singing in what sounded like Valyrian to him with a very soft voice. Mother was with her, and when she saw Shireen she put her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows like she always did when Shireen was being naughty or insolent. Shireen screamed and ran to Melisandre, attempting clumsily to take the baby boy from the red woman’s arms. She began to hit the witch in her kidneys, but her hands were numb from the cold and didn’t land very hard.

“Don’t you hurt him! Don’t!” Shireen screamed over and over until Mother finally wrenched her away and shook her.

“Stop this immediately, young lady…no one is going to hurt the boy,” Mother snapped.

“She will! She’s going to burn him for his king’s blood!”

Shireen began to cry, feeling stupid and angry. For the past day or two, she had felt stupid and angry pretty much every second of the day. One minute it was because she felt uglier than usual and there was a boy named Pyp who never looked at her. Another it was because someone had lied and said her father was dead. Then it was because she was hungry for something sweet and there was almost nothing sweet around this place.

“Dear child,” Melisandre said, laughing. “You needn’t worry for the safety of this boy, though your mother and I just knew you’d try something like this. You are your father’s daughter.”

“This child hasn’t a drop of king’s blood, Shireen,” Mother said. “That wretched Lord Commander switched Mance’s child with that of the Wildling girl Gilly who left with the fat one. This poor little one is cursed to be sure…but not to die in the flames.”

Lord Jon had a friend named Samwell who had gone South with a Wildling girl they had kidnapped (or rescued, Shireen wasn’t sure which) some time before the Wildlings surrendered. He was going to get his maester’s chain at the Citadel in Oldtown and then come back, probably without Gilly. But Shireen thought it was a mean thing for Lord Jon to do…what must it be like to leave your own baby behind? She supposed if he hadn’t done it, another baby would die, but it still seemed unfair and cruel. Lord Jon had seemed like a kindly person, but after _that thing_ had happened, Shireen was a little frightened of him.

After supper, Mother told Shireen she must go and apologize to the Lady Melisandre for her behavior. First, Shireen pouted about it, but then she realized that Mother wasn’t going to come with her, which meant she would get to talk to Melisandre alone! She wasn’t very keen on having to apologize, but she really wanted to ask the red woman a lot of questions…and Mother would never allow it if she was there. So Shireen marched to Melisandre’s little room and knocked. She felt nervous, and her supper moved around in her belly. Her lower belly had started to ache badly, and she hoped she wasn’t going to get the splatters. Melisandre opened the door to her and smiled.

Inside Melisandre’s room was very warm, even though the fire looked quite small. The beautiful witch sat next to a table where she kept a mirror and many mysterious bottles and vials along with what was left of her supper. She bid Shireen sit down on her little bed, so she did. Shireen felt her cheeks flush and her scars tingle. She tried not to stare at Melisandre’s bosoms. Her bright red hair glowed in the firelight. It was truly exciting just to be near her.

“I want to say I’m sorry for hitting you today,” Shireen said.

“There’s nothing to apologize for princess. Your actions today do you credit,” Melisandre said. She took a piece of parchment and a quill from the table and passed it over to Shireen. “Would you write your name for me princess?”

“Why?” Shireen asked.

“Just indulge me.”

Shireen wrote and then handed the paper back to Melisandre, who ran a finger over the signature and said, “Princess…that rightward slant in your handwriting indicates a romantic nature – a heart that _yearns_. Be careful!”[8]

“Really?”

Melisandre nodded. Shireen rubbed her lower belly, which was really starting to hurt.

“You have something you want to ask me,” Melisandre said.

“I do?”

“Yes.”

Shireen paused and took a breath, then said, “Will you burn me, now that Mance Rayder’s baby isn’t here?”

“Would you give yourself to the flame if you thought it would save your lord father?”

Shireen thought hard. “Yes. If it would help father, I would.”

“You are a true Princess of the light, Shireen of House Baratheon.”

Shireen looked down at her lap. After a moment, she asked, “My Lady, why did the Lord of Light bring the Lord Commander back?”

“He didn’t.”

That surprised Shireen. “What do you mean? I saw you there when he came back. You said you failed but you didn’t.”

“I didn’t fail because I didn’t actually try, Princess. I said some words but I knew from the start it was hopeless. The Lord saw the danger to Jon Snow. Saw him become a wolf. And so he did. But something more evil and almost as powerful brought him back from the forest of night. Someone who feared his power as the direwolf.”

“Lord Jon is a warg!”

“That’s right, Princess. Jon Snow has a great power in him, and whoever is responsible for his return to life is no friend of the Lord of Light. They want to possess Jon and his power.”

“But they saved him.”

“His death saved him,” Melisandre said, and stood up. She walked over to Shireen and leaned over, pressing a warm hand on her shoulder. “Beware of Val, Princess.”

“The Wildling princess? But why?”

Melisandre blinked and smiled, looking as if someone just told her some good tidings. “Why Princess,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve become a woman this night!”

After she left Melisandre’s room, Shireen went to make water before going to bed and peeked at the crotch of her smallclothes to find that the red witch was right.

Chapter 8: Bran

Brandon Stark is trapped. He knows there is a way out now. _Do it now,_ said Aunt Lyanna. But there are no murder holes you can climb through. No sacred trees or winding crypt you can simply dive into. Escape here will look different…

_Hold the door._

Perhaps he would never find it. In the meantime, whatever that means, he had discovered the past is no repository of joy. The past had more suffering than the present…it was just spread further apart.

Hold the door.

_Hold the door._

Father’s tears. So many tears. Who knew it was possible. How could he have guessed he never knew his own father? Still he followed Ned Stark everywhere, whenever and wherever as long as it was in the past not the present. _Hold the door_. Every time he thought of Jon, longing to see his face, he saw nothing. He only felt a horror of pain and hurt, followed by terror and then more hurt. Of Arya he saw nothing, but felt day after day of pain condensed into a moment and enshrouded in a mantle of burning rage. Of Rickon…no image. Just a wild madness of hurting run through with fear and hunger. Of Sansa, just a darkness, cold and wailing. Of Mother…

No. _Hold the Door._ Not Mother. Hold the…

If she touches upon his mind, he is suddenly. _Hold the door._

He is standing in the courtyard at Winterfell, watching his father Ned Stark as a boy, sparring with his uncle Benjen. Talking to Willis, the stableboy who will later become Hodor.

Hold the door.

Other times Father was older. He saw him fight the great Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Saw Howland Reed stab Ser Arthur in the back. Father said they defeated him. How different the past was from what he’d been told. Still other times he followed Aunt Lyanna, riding her horse through the barrows and woods like a madwoman on fire. For hours she rode, further and further from Winterfell each time. She was so beautiful, with dark brown hair and grey eyes. Like Jon’s eyes. _Hold the door._

It was then that the Three-Eyed Raven had made his decision, Bran knew. It was in that moment, between when Ned Stark and Howland Reed made a blood vow together outside the Tower of Joy _the terrible pain_, and when Father rode into Winterfell with a bastard baby in a sling _his ribs are broken_. He had taken Bran then and trapped him forever in a realm of memory.

I’m alive. The pain means I’m alive.

Then something intervened…a god maybe. Joy. Rickon. It’s me.

And Bran found himself back in his body, propped up beneath a huge oak, snowflakes drifting across his open lips. On his right…Meera Reed. Meera of the thick brown curls. Cheeks flushed and eyes tired. On his left…Uncle Benjen. Grown. Face half gray and pockmarked. One eye blue and one grey. _You must to the Wall, but I cannot go with you…_

Where was Hodor?

Hold the…

Uncle Benjen and Father are sparring in the courtyard. _Hold the door._ They are laughing. How happy _hold the door_ they are.

Lyanna comes now on her horse, the dappled grey. She has a blue winter rose stuck in her long brown hair. She stares right at him as if he is standing there.

Standing.

_That’s it young Bran,_ she shouts. _You had it. Break free. Now…do it now!_

Where is Hodor?

[1] O’ Brien, Tim. “How to Tell a True War Story.” _Postmodern American Fiction: A Norton Anthology_ (New York: W. W. Norton, 1998), 174-183.

[2] After “Todesfugue” (Death Fugue) by Paul Celan (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1yuZIjJR_Cc)

[3] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss. _Game of Thrones_. Season 6, Episode 8: “No One.”

[4] Martin, George R. R. _A Feast For Crows_. New York: Bantam, 2005.

[5] Shakespeare, William. _Othello_.

[6] Benioff and Weiss. Game of Thrones. Season 6, Episode 10: “The Winds of Winter”

[7] Inspired by Edward Gorey’s _The Gashlycrumb Tinies._

[8] Frost, Mark and David Lynch. _Twin Peaks_. Season 1, Episdode 4: “Rest in Pain.”


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